Tuesday, December 30, 2014

all the way out

such a thing has come upon me now
where even the rainfall appears slanted
and uneven

missus in the rain oh stop it
with your wild birds

for it is even enough of the hooting

of disaster like they are Tarot birds
that will not stop

even when the water reaches
out and up to

such a thing such a collapsing thing
no, it is love, so please
continue though it breaks and storms
though everything
though the rain breaks the windows
it is only our hearts that resist
fear fear fear
all its devices
but all our hearts here are wild hearts
and will not stop

their little engines
of dread

is this your stuff I found
along the path, discarded
on the way to the door?
did you walk naked
to this midnight?

hoot now
as never before
hoot as though your mere heart



proximity, prolapse, intercrura, cartography

why would you curse the future
for such motorbikes in the rain
yes outside smoking
inside looking and thinking
yes yes I have no standards
and anything now yes anything
upstairs no don't just don't

in the hallowed hall with the fan
heater blowing

rainfall in the east window
slight oh slight
lakes that hurt all over the map
here be dragons baby
off the very edges of the known world
no no



Schlock of the future

the holding back think of your secrets
that are blockages to love

all night and all day smoking dope

my parents have fallen by ill chance
into a huge tank
full of shit
in your/my dreams they flounder
rescuing puppies in their mouths

like komodo dragons in their salivatory filth
someone light it up
danger danger danger
at your leg it biteth

oh it was never love
just first aid gone mad

what give itself to everyone anyway
with scant regard


Wednesday, December 24, 2014

spring tide—
the sun jumps
over the moon


Monday, December 08, 2014

that's not even wrong

the child that wakes at dawn child of patterns
(by the fainting episode) the magic lantern
through the blue curtains their shimmer their streetlife
who listens to the lights at night that track the angles
of the only room so the faces the spectators loom
so every room another box without a door

sees the child in the future the child without eyes
feeling for his/her alongside in a crumpled still-warm
stillborn silence now there has been enough
there is no news today of the escaped thing
perhaps it has not happened, not here
the child that escalates and vaults

the child that in its father's arms looks out
on reeling fields of mist to remember
futures of unlived blood and love
in the mirror he will not wake
in the other mirror she will not wake
not in this or other futures
but still he is held she is held
as though the leaves reeling down
in wind and rain had purpose had time had past
the child its little eyes alive to this
starting starting in fear and background love
the child that will not wake to this
will not dream here
the child with three sleeps left
child with flowers for hands
child of emergency lights
dreaming undreamed child of the fog-ridden pines
and pulses child in the angel light
and the police are here and it is really all over
but hold him hold her close at the fading
the quickening of this child, of this, child
your instincts will not be will not be born or lorn
not for nothing.not for nothing

she was not ill in that way, not in that way
child you had a chance to wake but did not
and what engine now clamours
but nothing now shall it wake
not for the sun or stars
shall it creak its earthly eye
not for nothing engine not for engine nothing
only cast away by our fear in the wasteland
behind the wall between the houses
alongside the streets where once
a page yet to write itself
newly vacated still-warm
these unlived forgotten episodes
of love on which he looks
still in arms in the garden only this afternoon
she looks out from the swaddle
though she is too old for this and cannot now settle
see in her in his eyes it starts again
it cannot rest and hush it deeply
deep as houses and the backs of beyond
deep as the blue startle of long-ago dawn
unlived, unlived, only dreamed
in your castaway gaze
from the arms of unborn fathers

for she was not ill, not in that way
and all your futures out of time, unredeemed
reward of the scraping she was not ill nor will be
nor was that life born along those backstreets
or in the wainscot or in the wall or in the panels
the fabric the joists the horsehair the signatures
beneath the paper and paint and plaint
nor did the wind moan there in autumn
or in the fog or at dusk when you would
feel it most if feeling had been born

bring me your dead children to house, to rehome
to accost as roosters who dance in the thick cloud
tonight/today/after all/later and all of a sudden and only
perhaps where the winds meet

for this does not end here
or there or in between

for she was not ill, not like that
in the fairy vat the leaden kettle
the idea of it has no place no home
no spot to settle, no dapple or apple
of its eye in the orchard I-spy in mid-afternoon
in the moss or mosses or picaroon
or isoglosses topes and tropes or thropes or other substance
of mist and scopes where you after all
are not shown any ropes, after all anyway the moon
after all and anyway the stars and their hurtle their gravity
that cannot act or anyway turn turtle

for yes and no and this never can never come too soon


Sunday, December 07, 2014

les ombres de la rue/some riffs of Edith/La Mome Piaf

it was these appropriations which first enabled
her covetousness of the skin and at 05:30 in Easter
she separated from her father and took a room

Edith deducted from frequenting of prostitutes
in the brothel of her grandmother. her
weakness towards men. imagine her miracles
of blindness fooled only by folklore for yes

it was a thing that started and darted a small thing
that shone and did not shine all the while the sound
of water a hubbub and blub and through the hot hotel

as if in a confined hot water tank an angel
of limitation had careered and crashed
found itself reborn in froth all down the street

the singing street with its verve and violence
and was and was not and was again
while all the while even in its smallness/ugliness

what anyway can men know of this?

Saturday, December 06, 2014

future crime

and your looking like that
as though and then the tides
the tides that come as if another
did not yet exist wait wait stop
one would cry from the time
machine no wait for it cannot be long until
all this is borne down subsumed
where you will
have no visa no right or rightly
with this think and think
again what and wherefore for this moment
will pass deeper in the crystal
feel the shapes that will become
when you wake to the horror
that passeth for excitation
of the merest the most perfunctory
but not one no was missed
or stayed or neglected all these
crimes were duly dutifully shouldered
to the wheel of list and lissome lust
too late then for any of it
now only the exploding debris
to be plucked from the mud
by the avid little fingers
of the light



Friday, November 28, 2014

cowarding the dread mythopoeia of lissome some-fay and ancient self-hatred/anger of others/the other and as if the duendé were for the moment shielded/occulted by a passing body far off/close as the fug of hot-oil kitchens and bayed rooms: in other words, disaster

and I'm on my knees
looking for the answers—The Killers

How to Succeed and How
to Suck Eggs
—The Book of Lies, Chapter 69. Aleister Crowley

how to ruin a space a body a time
with continua such she/she in fervours
of atavist agitate done this/then this

must follow like a river down a throat
of crime against the future writing
crazed patterns on your bedmaps

hold hold one would'st cry aloud
there or not mid the [eschscholzia
one inserts for mere linguistic relief]
all of it dream made real unreal

city full of rats how you wish at heart
that you were what you wish you
were at heart back then in the dichot

but no the word/world must erupt
in tomy the cutting if there is injustice
to match or swatch your innertomy

in fever in heat in must your spoor
your blood trail led you to this to arrive
fully unformed from the head up

or down as though a wind or other
irruption of blowing or sucking
had'st tooked it all away left nothing

no responsibility no reason
no understanding just shrinking
delight und horror unmappable

when/where it matters
most or mostly least seeming
now leastmost and hindmost

echoes through the wire the boast
along the coastways of that
that forbidden and most-bidden

to arrive at the midnight door
dragging her corpses laughing
hoping both for resurrection

and the deep omerta of all
that is past, unhearing
of its own laughing

about its own midnight
unsecret garden


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Look at it this way: Modernism did this experiment of eschewing the past, of establishing a year zero. That was about as successful as any other religious force that denied that we had antecedents.

Look at it this way: you have just arrived at a football stadium, but you have no song to sing because nothing has existed before. It has really, but suddenly it's all disallowed. You have no history. It's not going to be that great an experience. Postmodernism is the huge laughter from that assembled crowd when they realised that no one even had a song. That laughter became the song. That *is* postmodernism. And yes, it's all echoes now.

The Grand Narratives of religion and belief and State were our hypnotics, our song losing or winning.

One day we awoke. But really we wanted to sleep some more. We didn't like being awake. Now we build Dutch/Hanoverian sinovial brick turrets that people call 'Lego buildings.' Some of us are still larfing ourselves sick on the terraces at the entire structuralism of post-structuralism. Oh, I mean postmodernism. Oh, I mean toothpaste.

Dan Brown didn't arrive fully formed from Hell. He was courted and solicited. Regard him as the post-postmodern throwback to the primordial firelight. He didn't just cough up Roslyn Chapel; you asked for it.

Mwah x


sideways down the holes
our tender buttons


in case of sodden cows

a cow once ate rotten apples
in an orchard in Kent
went around butting trees
for three days drunk
on sort-of-cider
honking like a goose
sometimes it lowed up
at the bottom of my ladder
all plaintive and cow-eyed
come down it cried and let
me ravish those apples
you have upon your back
but no, surely no, I cried back

northern cunt, it said then
(that's what they say, down there
in that Kentish place)
from its many stomachs
full of ferment, just wait
until you come down

from your perch for I will
surely renounce vegetarianism
on your behoof
and will eat you from the apple up

three long days in a tree
terrorized by a mad cow disease
but it grew upon me
like moss and mould and yawns
now my entire family
grandparents, dead, and all
arboreal are we now
swingers all, the junglee VIP
three by three
banana-eaters amidst the rainy oaks
me and King Louie adrift
in this Agatha mystery case
of the sodden Kentish cow


Aizino avec curt

think of those lead-faced deformed archers
lop-sided, lop-eared, crop-eared
shitting where they stood
in their fluxy blood
finally, after all that
had been shat
stretching and letting fly
their bloody bodkins
at the horses
at anything, actually
but mostly the horses

for that is how you do that

where big birds bask in the methyl

a beginning, a muddle, and an end — Philip Larkin

it is all so big

like a chicken he danced across it the whole desert cape
and others of which one darest not
that was anyway only a thing of the stars
look at it now in the filth
(like that she stank of the chemical)
(think of Wednesday and what it has gathered,
what it has become — is it even possible
to recover?)
that escapes from its broken mouth its south mouth
look and maybe kick at it as you pass by reviling

[a little black dress of a day-flying moth—
one must say, cinnabar in the marram]

sin, abar, sin nombre and you anyway the buzz and battery
not cell not uni but multiple we name you electrician 

you and your stars anyway, is it always about you?
pshaw, unholy earth and unfinished unfinishable blowjob
that you are or would be for all of us saw you

]empty-eyed (whisper etc) as starry spaces in that bath of lead that night
whereof anyway the openings of tiny cameras but of course
that means flowers for chambers are flowers by definition

and reason alone would requite it so just watch[
(who/hoo and what is that that bangs in the wall?)
if you don't believe then dig deep for your hexenoic acid

freak and fertility superfecund triorchid of the noon star

O dead thing, we are only here to worship your trail

one had something to say but that is all so lost

you, the vast and continuum of you
your own f-stops fuck
dead in your silver/gold emulsion
light replaced by light
box yourself, box yourself
think of it and box it
at last, as love, boxed in, yes
covered and worked out
in all your seams


Monday, November 24, 2014


I thought I knew about it
I even shouted at it
it didn't shout back
it was a difficult child
sitting there smirking
without a Wah
pedal, no man will be fully able
to find a clitoris
even at this hour
footsteps past the door
loud river of souls
this string thing
this mist-ridden dawn
that will never stop

in/of/and lonely places (for Diana Manister)

the firs voice what falls off
the surrounding fire the wall at the call
you in the outer place far off as angels
we have no discipline outside of children
do not eat sprouts for they are unlovely
and resemble the genitalia of aliens
for which reason alone negotiate
parsnips and neeps on the other hand
are perhaps sent for teaching
and although undesirable may have higher

you with no voice or face in the firs
is a different story a cast-up from the bore
that sweeps at dawn all things
at the pace of tidal horses

think now of Hong Kong how they clean themselves
daily and wear tight stuff under the LED drumbeat
how they time their ashdrops to their pace
their fake Rolex between mouthsful
of Blue Girl prawns in white Mah Jong
and the shout that goes on forever
up Temple Street I am there in my bright
white eye at dusk at dawn at nightfall at the hour
in the crepuscular dance of half this half that
where you as a ghost wrap around

for this is the purple deep where our dreams
return impatient in their hooves look how they steam
and stamp upon the iron bridges over the slight river
so wide and hollow such a torrent of silence
nothing was known nothing of the Dead
who still gnashing crossed and were gone
in lucky money swirls of smoked love

just think of all of it at the hypnagogue as you fall
as you ache as you collide as you enter as the incoming
as the fire in the hole wakes you again
to what could have been

phosphene, I must call you that as a summoning
for the pressure and outer edges
think then phosphene, think of me
down there in the river and strait
turbulent and unrelenting as drowned childs without
drifting below without faces
looking up always up


what in animal sleep he sits next

when his girlfriend goes to sleep he sits
next to her seeing rainbows around her breath
with sparrows in the air everywhere like Edith

holding the gun to her head
wondering if it's worth it
for just that momentary sensation

where in one jerk all is lost forever
everyone must ask at this moment
whether Jackson is better than Rembrandt
but in the intervention

between the idea and the blooded-up wall
even in the moment of light
between the bullet penetrating and the spray

it is unanswerable
however far we double-tap dance
in the river's sweet waterwheel wreckage
sleep you stoned iron cage

.anyway, he does it
didn't you know
her brain drains through
the woodchip
but he is requited
silence at the very least
runs down like a vast beetle
lost in the mosaics of commitment


oh eat this devil say'd she

on a field like Columbine
now you're dumb I don't know why
bang bang tremor at the I for what is
as boring says/sayd he/she at the taable
tablets of demand the ten demandments
listen to this then one's unholy new fuckriff
watch this spread eat this evil
as though dead she lies as though
all the Dead were liars now lying alone
Woh, one needs to say, oh look
at the colours in the rain, festival boy, look
how they flood in marriage fornever

these portmanteau things clunk as leaden
hoofs/hoofs—on or of which, brother
clutch ghost-clutch in broad breadlight


Saturday, November 22, 2014

words one will not

a word you say or will ever say
as though parachutists were not usually
men from the sky

sky, get the weep of that
for this is not a poem of longitude
dark though you may like to appear
in your shells your atomic decay
even you whoever
do not yet tread the greater flats
watch for instance now
how this
Blues band so fat and uneven
falls from the sky



Monday, November 17, 2014

if it weren't
for this breath
I just couldn't


dark lagomorphs at dawn's whirl

already your heartbeat
has overtaken mine
I clutch your heels
and so we fall together
planted at the mouth
shriek, mother-child
for this love of wishing wells
and the buzzing disease
that surrounds oh shout shout
it is hot here
and our hands are lined and loose
be that only forever
endlessly, let us decrypt that
in the lorn shadow of what love maybe


blood and hair everywhere who can explain? one's love poem already

so borne down in the scheme
as a rat that scurried or perhaps
even didn't
it was all inconsequential anyway
considering what came next

wow there was a bang
and then the door fell in
a ratman ran in with a gun and said yes
to everything yes I am saying yes

and even though I hold a gun

in a threatening manner I feel love
somewhere though at this time I care not
to display it

for I feel as though I am the very essence of Gertrude
and Damon, whose names anyway

mean evil and delight       listen

I am not serious

so broken are we that our hearts now
hang full of blood in our mouths
but what else what else are hearts for
if not for bloody hanging as we, cripes,

are lowered unto

the singing roses below

joker that you are, Pale Death-face

fear ain't here, only marbles
oh he/she meant marvels
like all disasters.sing.shrink.ring

bang for it is time already.strange deer of the outhouse
jokerfaced lover
careless of thy prints, imprinter, implant, embedder
cock-eye half out and in

so choose life when it is urgent
for this god got a deep running problem

oh but you know
these fear places of love/hate/love

enough now:let's go there

don't look back.i have to try to mean this

it's not funny


Sunday, November 16, 2014

dead leaves seen active in ceremony

so engulfed were we then
that we of course
could not continue
but found instead harbours
of sea-laughter
amidst the snatching birds there


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

so sink the minutes to starry death

not in a million years/tears/fears with one so jellow-jaundiced would I travail
—Madeleine Shine

the wild packets that adorn
the futon of course photon heat of glossing rock and roll

stars these were, with which pulsing

her hands fairly exploded
as she /lifted them/ around her face
feeling-felt as press'd hair for presum'd tics
that/would/would/were not stop

(press hard unto thine eyes and then

with the stuff --@the stuff{
the hands that wriggle and straighten
oh that at least.think. if there were gerunds

here they are gone now yellow as dead
as ashtrays and cult films.dead they are or
may be.think.think how

withall without religion or sex-phosphenes so
anyway we s/leapt

one's eyes yellw and your heart-fear bellw for

in this of all this we find ' s/peace
no more or other
than that dinosaur what lookpt up
what didst marvel and momentarily
signify and complain
oh look, oh no no no
after all it was not he crieth
the great lizard god what done it but

fiery ctastrophs frm on high

)bearing oxies und gens they cometh(

such maravels and songs now hasten on white
wings behold


Thursday, November 06, 2014


in making the concept of entropy precise
any of his comments had an open mind
which represents rank and enfilade do you
overstep the mark not much short
of blood loss involved in a member
of its own affairs—he gave them the slip
by getting no idea is that true it can be EEK
shaken off simply by getting relocation
powers the difference everything they could

in the succession of firstborn girls to push
it through in one day—stay right where
you are in a single day in the opposite direction
unaltered even with incomplete reassurance-
an old question back into the consciousness
no other frontiers
whose lands had been,
I felt, deeply ashamed 
(finally after centuries it steps out, the PANTHer the ThInG)

...........................[it didn't work] ****

veering later, backing in the commons
at the forefront of arguing 
year on year he too has shaped
the voices of the living/their/appalling/histories

now, now they saw a chance to do the same 

the whole land has become


“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?”

—Epicurus (341 BC – 270 BC)


Tuesday, October 28, 2014

I tweet without discipline:


Nazi rhino trumpet squawk

outside of the lens
we are close to orgasm

but this is not you it is
five hedgegogs and a dream pixie
of whom one has no knowledge

Nazis walk here with their rhino trumpets

why didn't you buy me a

'there is nowhere to go'

that would have made sense

I'm trying with this gingerbread to make
jesus in a bucket

and the braying of Buddhism like giant cows
foghorns through the fog
lament of dead souls how they sound
sailing slowly through
the graveyard far out
beyond at sea

with one tiny eye

you know the rest


so I dreams of Vikings moving house

the pink or pinkish bucket of the signifier *that*
I thought perhaps you were in love
she/he/it has to say sliding
one daff-odil
a dee O but believe and relive
now that the spumetops, the shuddering tops
with their scarves from Scandinarviax
will lower upon you like unto trolls
which is known now to be
stone and all of stone
perceived as stone of eyes
hands and mouth
think of it, Sarsen, think
stone and will not think otherwise
until your childs clink
when closely packed

such an issue there has been as never from the first
but that's done with
now pink rain falleth so sweet as which huge hogs
irrupt from the gutters and drains
in demand of affilial citation

but all is as naught
when the night will never

end for all of time has but evenly stopt

what Ozymandias even Jesus
the cracked clockface in the dirt
and the boys what piss upon it

now that Walpole word for castles
no not that
not yet
yawn but wait


on the writing that one will never remember

there's a cowboy in a pink suit
in the sky
in a sky blue Cadillac
by and by
but he's only there to die
in our pale blue eye
*ours but to reason why*
so, sigh

(Goodbye, Joe, me gotta go...)



Saturday, October 04, 2014

working in the dead of night

in the Lantau stations
thither and beyond
of hot wind and turtles
they cry
think now of the ocean goddess
cut and cut again for there is no real business
without cutting

of harpies and hot wind
but one doth not peak at this
which requires such aerial slash
and scimitary as mosques and boxry
in the candle spread for this only

watch and watch again as the shades and fetches
around the concubine shrubs
in the low court

where tea and hashish and craquelure are
to be found amongst lizards and others

in this almost the sort of love of which
we would wish


Thursday, September 18, 2014

people who know nothing

that dirty little lake-river
where under we sat
when the bubbling
and anyway

even in our twists
oh I felt and almost did you
so urgent was it then

down by the windfall
where the dreams blow by so slow

that even the daylight
through the smoke/steam
is now unended

for this is a dark,
great love of waters


Sunday, September 14, 2014

marry me this day, sweet love

all the trees become monkeys at nightfall
their silhouettes falling/failing in black buffaloes of exuberant life-mud
—in wine and strokes we pick the black parasites
from our hides, all of us native as treetops, roots, bark, nothing
beyond what we can see—deserter... we call you that. we dare and dare not.
the mudwine has taken us for harvest. you who deserted us, carry us then
in your strokes, carry us forth and do not. submerged as the naked one lying beneath, your story, your stroked mud, deserter. you who know nothing
and all things in the foul mouth of the harvest-rainbow. you who carry us on
my love our love, all that you are become the treetops now of monkeyed night. deserter. foul mud. breakers of wine. strokes of the carry-harvest,
unleavened, black carry.

fuul steps i mean

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Life without the civilising intervention of regular oral sex

uh i don't want the earth to keep on
in its track no i don't want santa to come no more
nor no fairies to squat by the river
singing low plaints to the love of children
no i want it all to break and fail
all women to rush suddenly from their bloodbeds
intent upon burning something
all men to lift hammers and crush their own fingers
one by one in their workshops
then retire to nearby hostelries with straws
to contemplate with bloody women
the next act of clarity

(air in the bells. lake-voices at ring in the noonfish church.) 


Saturday, August 23, 2014

Where has the embedding code gone to?


Wednesday, August 20, 2014

girl from the frontier
girl woman with sixteen new teeth
I have no script
there you are
up in  arms, aloft as balloons

Friday, August 15, 2014

the bad man in the woods

monster with no teeth
even my boys now know Herb Robert
at the waysides
oh look such illegal pickings but how foolish
we have seen tormentil and have picked
by the Iron Age bridge
in the woods
by the river out of Hell
that rushes sometimes black always heavy
germander speedwell and its demons
tiny fleurs have we harvested
for beauty alone, no
also for summer's novelty
and the crushing sense of cloud
down in the valley

we are not allowed here
not on this embankment
this land
where the germander speedwell
lifts the stones in geological time
and the tiny beetles
crawl in our moss-mouths I don't wish
to be violent
but say that again we are not allowed
with such peaceful intent
and such little boys


Monday, August 04, 2014

Catholicon riff

so this meteor crashes into the house
of a priest and everything is broken and ablaze
and his concubine's bed is flying towards
well maybe the sea or maybe just the nearest village
it won't be possible to tell until the next morning
and he himself has landed upon a neighbour's roof
with three dogs and an ocelot
that was weirdly uplifted from a nearby menagerie
owned by a rich guy who is now all mush from the blast
what a selective blast but miracles like that can happen
so the flying concubine cries out oh can you help before I land
in the sea or on the land surely God can help
but the priest who now has three dogs and an ocelot
which feels like more than he has had for some seasons
shouts back no my love for I have to light somehow
the vesper candles so you must trust unto God
whereupon he alights into the still-smouldering locale
and partakes
of some wine and then earthly as it seems
and for the first time in history
the Catholicon holds no mystery
oh he says
this critter's got me all blistery
this wine seems fulla whine
and not entire divine
I must of kinda lost a lot
with that there rooftop ocelot



Wednesday, July 30, 2014

if like this, like this

hands in your hair

your hair your hair of olive wind
if a language flowing outward

if filaments of memory if even the trees
if everything here warm slow
wild and slow-wild if how you come to life

in my hands your hair flows out
if all morning so flowing out descending bright birds
inside us calling long ago this moment keens

your contours your hachures your rising and falling
your planes your whirling your little Sufi gasp

if like this, like this

heartbeat and breath and hollow ground
and midnight morning and all day and dusk that arcs between
blue spirit flames, radio crackles

and if along our hillsides
like this, like this, we start to collapse

in the fading red shadow of this our body

then this, this is the spray of night

[duende, red-black, in murmurs]


Saturday, July 26, 2014

that's one dead uncle

the uncle has died the top hat
the high hat the cartwheeling
avuncular aunt in her/his sleeps
the last lap before Runcorn and Rainhill
he has gotten/taken off at Edge Hill his

hat that flies afar afield I swear

he was alive when last his face
his bomber sheep convertible
slowmotion dunes crowd out
his face a sort of function a sort

of etcetera a sorting and clipped
masonic scouse that elides the top
hat the vat the fatcurled cat the scat

and scant the cant the pant eek the rant
of garage sexpower the whole
damn shower nothing but a chair
lies he there the brother wyght
eek know his fernal troth and plight
a sort of half-love of which were made

this shade in Lancs half-glade and clade
the chair still warm impres't the rest
to rest to rest enough the high hat
on which he sat long and did rat
all things earthly 'neath his beastly bat


Wednesday, July 23, 2014

brown water at the weir

if only you had seen this
with its light that sprays the water
like a childhood machine-gun
and where we sit
when we are done with the races
and just wait in the mud
with our oh-he's-doing-it-again  faces
by that pool
and how he still wants to jump
up that wall, all lichened
and mossy are they the same no
all over his knees
for ten minutes we on the bridge
lost him in the shade downstream
as he tried so hard to win
there in the race

this ancient and aching shade

so much love in this: a new animal leaps
from of all of it


Thursday, July 17, 2014

hitting one's head in the schoolyard

a tropopause to all things a place
where emotion stops
temperature is regulated
the wind suddenly ceases
in a long blue band of nothing
and forever we fall
into softness

oh I am such a zebra with this


slow-motion by a canalside at midnight

beyond normality or Rock and Roll
this music of night and ejection
these ghosts that hover and splash
hover and splash
almost we can reach out and touch them
their green marsh-gas, their haunting
but no they are gone and will not come again
down there their drowned faces
vapid as the unborn
no, they whisper
we will not come


Wednesday, July 16, 2014

the omen-bird
bounces the canal at noon—
strange koans ripple

the petrichor of what is lost

sun and rain that hiss equally as they stoop
their equivalent rainbows on the grit, washing
into the heather scoops, and thereafter

through the smoke of this he walks away
—rain and sunlight that carve new
ruts to the past in his face

breathe in, and think
of how the mind-camera will pan and pan back

then be still as a moonlight hare
in the scent of yourself

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

infinite commas discovered near Stratford etc

is this a long lake, he asks
no I say, it is called a canal
and so we proceed

into a similar level of unknowing
almost Martian and from early space-science
as though a man with purple scissors
ruled the world

and all that dwelleth etc. look now
how such precision is required
to enable one plant to operate
along the canal bank, faced with
so much contusion—what
does contusion mean in this world
of meagre plant-life, clinging
as the boats laugh along

yes, what does plant life
what does canal
what does head wound
we did all that already

now just this: only an ape
would ever use a comma in poetry,



Monday, July 14, 2014

these collisions by the river by the wood

it's like getting mirrors involved in sex
the Sun bursts over your new shiny oh for
the love of
nothing you know or will ever know
beyond that
moment when two tiny things suddenly
the rest of your lives and your children

your now dancing far fairy children
alone in the wooded wiles by the fires

looking aloft into twigs and smoke

all bets are off with mushrooms now
around here

Friday, July 11, 2014


are you too serious?
am I too serious?
has the world just fallen out of a tree
and landed
in a brown paper bag
attached at the mouth
to a panic attack?


Saturday, July 05, 2014

there's no reason
for that cow that fell from the sky
it was just cow time


a while in the mist

all your fear is gone
your once-broken heart is nestled
there in the warm grass
near the waterfall
that cascades in your memory/body

your children of the past
and those to come they
are here too for this is the warm place

wait a while in the mist
that spreads cool as tall trees
over the mosses
wait here, lie

as a shade in shade
for all the world is fearful
but not here
where there is no time

where all is secret
in the walled garden
with its pulse
its butterflies that alight upon
your fingers
which are roots

back to the cascade
of beginning
stretch here, breathe in
the sacred the broken
air beyond air
light fills everything

there is nothing to think

it is time: at last
and at first
it is time


Sunday, June 29, 2014

quite why we bother

down the heat and the path along

[by the railway]

by the railway-fennel ]grows it is difficult to find[
though its scent

..................................is everywhere after.

(You have crossed the old, collapsing bridge.)

the big mill chimney is still there—unstill
it shakes down a plume of shade that cycles
like a sun dial gnomon

......records nothing but its own presence
on the water

where sometimes-geese in their own concerns

and chase away the smaller ducks

"halfway to here and there is that bridge
and after that I don't know"

it seems futile sometimes
but humans are good at/getting/up/again
after having been laid waste

like everywhere flies after a volcano


Monday, June 23, 2014

Give thanks to the universal Lala!

when lies damned lies and atavistics (for Pam O'Shaughnessy)

under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me

not alone not in isolation
bouncing back and forth
the origo of us of both
borne and birthed and transmitted

from one to one to one
warrior-hunter-mother in fire and fret
of the singularity that was both in one
no splitting no breaking of this

our covenant not in violence or love
no gods but us reached out to fashion

evil in clay or flesh but desire
only down the crying years we lay

drying on the mudbanks growing
wingfins of the halfheart assembled
together made the monster that wakes
each and every—who now can unweave
the whole world and time and point
stark as an angel and cry he alone
it is he who must not be

when I chose you
and you chose me
under the spreading
chestnut tree?



send your love to our pale blue dot

for all its unmeaning

Will you live to eighty-three?
Will you ever welcome me?

Virgil and Wyatt are shooting at invisible dragons
that shimmer and dance over the rooftops of the stables
they aim low and wide for the mirage effect

just after High Three-noon occurs mythic collateral
further down the meridian

[these fire-hoofers have secret names, unspeakable
outside of conflagration]

like some sequential pruritus [tell me you know this
] lights are firing up
into constellations do you know this effect

of history this working at one that lights another
like the beacons of the body for there in the sand-
<paintings the itch-bird to a low hum weaves>

and it is prūrītus for it is prurient as nerve gas
that worms subcutaneously that ramifies the systemics
that pauses and looks out when it reaches the eye
prurience and prurites and the itch
the deep ache that is such prefix snapping as it swings

low over Tombstone plucking the wounded into dark
legends that dance upon the blinding wavetops

no says Virgil
no, forever


Monday, May 26, 2014

all night hooting
like a mad owl
that mad owl

I could trust you if only you did not use high-rising terminals and look so orange when you think of the past

Friday, May 23, 2014

fierce frogs in mist

if only and then the rain
does everyone in the world wear glasses now
even in the rain such rains
have we expired even watching TV even that?

eyes are sore but not terminally so my eyes
are sore with thinking she says
laid there like Jesus spread your legs and think of home, ET

yes just do it and don't think even of that
it is the time in between again look now
the boundless frogs
bound without sound.what will we think.when we are woken?


Monday, May 19, 2014

register today and get exciting new features

what does she mean by 'strong, warm resinous'? [how to boil]
let them stand then you'll find quite small is and is mixed
to smooth elastic (you can make this just by placing)
when you are satisfied because I don't mind if one
is fractionally larger and has begun to shrink
slightly away—first of all, melt—
all down the hot aches the slick that comes for us all


Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Monday, March 24, 2014


According to research by Dr. George Walkden, a University of Manchester lecturer,  the Old English word hwæt, which begins the English language’s oldest epic poem (“Hwæt! We Gar-Dena in gear-dagum, þeod-cyninga,  þrym gefrunon, hu ða æþelingas  ellen fremedon!”), should not be read as an interjection separate from the rest of the first line  (“Listen! we have heard of the might of the kings”),  but rather as part of a complete exclamatory sentence—something like “How we have heard of the might of the kings.”
Citing research that “there’s no record of the Anglo-Saxons using exclamation marks, or any other form of punctuation, besides the full stop (or ‘point’) and the occasional semicolon” Walkden declares all previous interpretations—”‘What ho!’ (Earle 1892), ‘Hear me!’ (Raffel 1963), ‘Attend!’ (Alexander 1973), ‘Indeed!’ (Jack 1994), and ‘So!’ (Heaney 2000)”—to be wrong.

menses and scarp


Wyatt back
from the farflung
hauling home
home the sonnet
eek the heart that 'pon it
as if by dogs
from anchorage to nome
curseth the cadence and all what don it

(barrage-creeping firewall and their equi/v/alents

in the cerebellum but what of such War?):
—more of this later—the red barn
its proxies that tinge
through the psychotropes where one ought only
to hear of smoking idylls? for what a word's worth etc?
there are creatures, one cries, creatures


smoking kills— so many smoking kills
—so many, but the e-mote seems at once

spurious spouting when with such windows or other
outfalls already
like this or...

[ore] the broadcast seams
worked out (work doubt!)
by forcèd men with baskets where the Sun:
your many smoking kills where the Sun
at low angles in the woods; the Sun at Low

—Angles in the Woods Cry Havoc low
an gills
in the cerebella
only you could ever, only you

monster, your many smoking skill


Saturday, March 15, 2014

in the dark way of aberration and sledges. oh

so this guy that jumps
well just before
it goes into that
he thinks oh
my wife has abandoned me
this train
my children have figured me for the disaster
even though I can make good trifle
what the idiotic Italians
call English Custard
all that it is
all it will ever be
some kind of custard suicide
with rabbits
after the train blows by
in an awful blast of night
it's always more than that
three rabbits at least
and then a crow
crarks and everyone
says shut up hey nothing
not now


Tuesday, March 04, 2014

all things here at once

this phone surrounded by flies
this phone that never rings
listen, your bed is filled with biscuit crumbs
and you are a frog anyway belly-up
the solar flares gleaming on your white skein

that somehow like a miracle

and its ruts are filled with your motorcycle-

and it really is Spring somewhere

and the night never did


there are no experts about you and me we are on our own

so drive me to Hell
you'll never find anything, Copper
I learned how to sit and wait forever
before you were born—Madeleine Shine

there are no experts about me and you
we are on our own
how tall you seem when you
are sitting down
quite the angry little animal

a numberplate says 333 and I can't
help thinking and then a broken window
at knee height
and the Sun bright and low
across the fire station roof
where once oh forget it
I am at a place called Eastwood Court
as though for epiphany or samosas
or some dead drop-off like someone
faraway died in a hole and a choir

and the way is filled with light
like the Hiera Hodos if, you know, if...

omens you just won't believe

what happens next
with that screeching car and the woman
full of ball bearings no one could ever solve

"the moment when energy flows YES"

in another window: "facials at half price,"
which I cannot help relating to pornography
and then: "the colour is called"
it was of course transitive, but the intransitive
is so farther so better so wider and its victims
it doth swallow and swift and so all against
the Law

and the white-angled Sun pulses
out the GPS

man, it's all over


Wednesday, January 29, 2014

when the levels uplit the levels

half of this and half of that
as though such draughts
and the house half full of ghosts
of the interior and interior
reckoning, for only then

as though some judgement or determination
from on high
as a kite flying low over the levels
it comes
knocking at three am
what you ask what
but it stands there pale
as harvests as half-eated bad moons with no faces

that anyone would recognise such things
at all is beyond
the pale/faced and tied
to the pole squirming before the denouement
where yes all that
as expected oh

it's love
and nothing at all
just a plane that fell from the sky
in pieces like ashen snow
just a boy
sick with it
off school


Monday, January 27, 2014

Misanther Panther

that got scientists thinking


in making the concept of entropy precise
any of his comments had an open mind
which represents rank and enfilade do you
overstep the mark not much short
of blood loss involved in a member
of its own affairs—he gave them the slip
by getting no idea is that true it can be EEK
shaken off simply by getting relocation
powers the difference everything they could
in the succession of firstborn girls to push
it through in one day—stay right where
you are in a single day in the opposite direction
unaltered even with incomplete reassurance-
an old question back into the consciousness
no other frontiers
whose lands had been,
I felt, deeply ashamed 
(finally after centuries it steps out, the PANTHer the ThInG)

...........................[it didn't work] ****

veering later, backing in the commons
at the forefront of arguing 
year on year he too has shaped
the voices of the living/their/appalling/histories

now, now they saw a chance to do the same 

the whole land has become


Sunday, January 26, 2014


Saturday, January 25, 2014

this black beam that can't support its own light

all around the lake below Cat Bells lemon drizzle

one of those days when all your teeth somehow don't quite fit

that's me and you Iris, far off on that bridge, look

it's that time again when the big hand points to nothing

of nothing the big lake
full of monkeys the car slips quietly into the river

6 am not a bell ringing anywhere

one by one the frozen crows fall off the wire

if I had a pound for every time I'd have nothing

this and that most of all this

under the ice your early face beautiful frog

8 am who doesn't need a servant?

all up and down the eastern wall that maddening flute

it's not quite Winter not until you too start snowing

in all of my dreams that vast black bird stamps upon the ice

love's first shiver my third eye takes a second glance